Queen of the Mark
by AlissonLoon
Summary: A half-Elf born to a forefather of Rohan still reigns alongside the King Théoden, as she has to all the Rohirric kings for the past five-hundred years. Long has she lived amongst men, and little does she know of the other half of her own kind. When four odd travelers arrive in Rohan, she grows close to the Elf Legolas, and begins protecting more of Middle Earth than just Rohan.
1. Chapter I

**I.**

The early morning sea smoke that rolled in and wrapped its lean arms around the hill upon which Líriwyn sat was baleful and vast. It resembled sticky spiderweb strung out across the ragged rolls of grass covering the Riddermark, teasing the muddied ground and blocking sight from most on watch. After hundreds of years of standing watch most hours of the long and lagging nights, Líriwyn figured her intrigue with the pastoral stretch and craggy backdrop surrounding Rohan would have fallen apart by now. However that may be, the winking stars casting coquettish glances down upon the land, and the furtive climbing of mountain peaks closer and closer to the moon never failed to pique her interest.

Though, this night was uncanny; Líriwyn picked up a scent carried by the wind that was entirely new to her, just as it was entirely old. The initial contact with this scent sent her into a short-lived frenzy as she troubled herself with the newness of it, but moments after she settled back into her lace slippers and realized how some similarity lay within the redolence, her mind bent and focused on curiosity in lieu of worry.

 _What creatures have cast a perfume so old to me?_ Líriwyn asked herself. In the foothills of a faraway tor three horses galloped toward Edoras, cutting through the fog blanketing the valley of Harrowdale at a quick pace. Líriwyn squinted her eyes to see the riders of the steeds, though their forms were but blurs of earthen tones. The horses' quickening hooves carried the company of three indisputably for Rohan. Yet before she left to notify the royal guards, she noticed the creatures upon which the guests raced. They were three of the Mearas; Líriwyn had spent too long tending to the horses in the Royal Stables to not recognize them.

 _And how would they procure the beasts of Rohan?_

Líriwyn gathered her skirts in her hands and left the tall, timber walls. As she walked speedily across the uneven grounds within the walls of Edoras, she passed the grey peoples of the city and felt spited by the bitterness of the Rohirrim. Once so lively in their gait, they now were ghosts of the gilded men who once roamed the land—now bleak of countenance and ashen of skin. Black and pernicious clouds sewn to the crown of King Théoden had cast long shadows over the people of Rohan.

Líriwyn pushed the wooden portal of Meduseld open and was confronted with the seamstress.

"My lady Líriwyn, Háma has told me he has seen your fair face afeard. Has some sight made ill your favor?" Gríma Wormtongue hissed from the place beside the throne of the king. From across the great Golden Hall, the king's counselor's pale eyes greeted her like eery pools beneath a dark elf's moon. He appeared nothing but a gargoyle upon the ledge of a king's sepulcher.

Though this king was not yet dead, only poisoned by the snake behind Gríma's blackened teeth. The king's brain lay near paralysis in its cavernous cave, consumed by the bitter darkness.

"Visitants near the walls of Edoras—three on our stallions. They ride South from the White Mountains, it appears; they ride fast."

Gríma stopped to lean his heavy head unto the shoulder of the king. "My liege, guests have ridden in upon our beasts; their purpose unknown. Perchance a listen may bid well for us?"

With a guttural grunt, King Théoden approved Gríma's wish. His mind was no longer hard, for Gríma's whispered words had altered it malleable.

The doorward Háma left upon the orders of Gríma to prepare the gates. Líriwyn left the king's hall for the stone porch which overlooked the highest houses of Edoras. The Rohirrim looked to their eternal gentlewoman, with her hair so red and her svelte stature so stiff she looked as though the lasting torch of Rohan. Though nowadays her flame burned dimly and her fire was no longer hot enough to bring blood back to their wan faces.

Éowyn appeared beside her, dressed in a fine white gown. As the banderole of Rohan flew overhead with the hard wind that had torn it from its pole, Éowyn spoke aloud: "Théodred has passed in the night."

Líriwyn looked to the elegiac visage of her companion. "This I know."

"And unmourned was his death by his own father," she spoke. Her eyes then captured the arriving guests, who drew close to the capital's gates. "Who is this company?"

"Not even I know whether friend or foe, but company nonetheless."

The gates creaked open with a somber song, reminding Líriwyn of the last time they had been so noisily opened and closed—behind Éomer and his cavalry upon their permanent leave. The deliverance of the three guests from the exterior to the interior of Edoras was careful, and also surprising seeing the city's general dearth of attentiveness of late.

Four guests came—the horse Beadurof carrying two. Only one did Líriwyn recognize, and that was Gandalf the Grey. Yet his hair was bright like mithril and a dusky cloak lay elegantly 'cross his shoulders. No other countenance was beyond notice aside from a pale-haired passenger, one of the two atop Beadurof. His hair was bright like that of Gandalf, but gloriously alive in comparison to the weathered hair of the old wizard. His eyes were grey and his ears were tipped delicately.

 _Daresay, another elf?_ Líriwyn felt an age-old excitement quicken the pace of her heart. Not in many men's lifetimes had she met another elf. _Perhaps this had been that peculiar scent that had so moved me before? Its familiarity old, its rarity new._

The gentle thump of hope rang clear in her head, but Líriwyn's ears were suddenly assaulted by the sound of dresses flying. She turned to see Éowyn's fair hair float behind her as she reentered Meduseld hurriedly. Líriwyn called and ran after her, but not before accidentally tying a direct line between her own eyes and those of the elf who rode Beadurof.

On wise toes, Líriwyn did not trip and fall over the folds of her emerald green dress. For too many times had her feet been caught on silks and linens, sending her flying forward in a cumbersome wreck of vermillion and porcelain. She ran like a deer—quick and nimble—after the billowing wings of Éowyn's dress.

"Éowyn, you are well aware I can outrun you!" Líriwyn reminded her prey. Once they had rounded the frontal stretch of Meduseld, Éowyn slowed. "Pray tell, child—from what do you run?" Líriwyn asked sympathetically.

"I fear for Rohan, Líriwyn, and for the King. Long has this winter lasted, and bitter has it been. Not even Théodred, great warrior and prince, could endure this agony… And great shame follows me when I cannot help but think—is he lucky to have lost this battle?" Éowyn cried. Thick rivulets coursed from her woeful eyes, sending salty drips to the curve of her jaw.

Líriwyn tilted her head and looked at Éowyn with empathy. As lives of men carved on and she remained, Líriwyn had faced great hopelessness that had bitten into her own heart; ergo she too knew the sting of despair.

"My dearest child," Líriwyn hushed Éowyn just as she had hushed her when the grown woman was a bawling infant. "I have seen many winters, some as bitter as this—when the wind was harsh and the news harsher. These winters are not easily thawed, and too many of us fall waiting for their ends. Though those of us who do are fragile in heart, and ever since the day you were born did I know your heart was strong.

You and I both will wear the loss of Théodred heavy on our hearts, but we will remember him for his courage and his gallantry, his kindness and his honesty, and we will wear these pieces too. And with these, and your own powerful heart, I am sure you cannot fail. Nor will Rohan."

Éowyn was weak in Líriwyn's arms, shaking like a tree in thick rain. The maiden did not cry often, Líriwyn remembered even as a baby this was true, but when she did she cried hard. However she was interrupted by the sound of calamity echoing from the hall, and Éowyn did wipe from her cheeks her tears and run for the origin of the sound.

In the far distance, the curved tips of Líriwyn's ears picked up the voice of a stern and grounded Gandalf: "Hearken to me!"

Then a withered laugh she knew all too well; a laugh once bright that had been poisoned by a foul and evil script.

Éowyn broke into the central hall's opening, running for her uncle but being held back by the steady arms of a man unknown to Líriwyn. Gandalf dressed in robes of white and held his staff high. The power of the words that left his sage and wrinkled mouth moved with such a force Líriwyn felt knocked over by the sheer swing of their weight. King Théoden arched his curved spine painfully against his wooden throne; his eyes widened and revealed cloudy plates to the sky. Had Líriwyn not been held steady by a gentle hand she would have perhaps faltered from Gandalf's expanding power.

In fact, Líriwyn felt steadied, grounded, secured in place, anchored—more so then she'd ever felt. It was a sensation felt in the twitch of the tops of her fragile ears, felt in the part of her mind that knew she was unique from every other Rohirrim, felt in her fingers which weighed heavy with rings of time, felt in the mithril bound eternally and tightly 'round her neck that had been given to her by her mother so many twelvemonths ago. Though unsteadily, Líriwyn looked for the identity who caught her whilst the fate of her king unfolded.

Painting the blues—not the greys—of his eyes was the scent which had haunted her. It enveloped her entirely as she looked upwards to the face of the other Elf; the only other Elf she had seen since her mother. His features were sharp yet achingly agreeable on the canvas of his fair skin.

A golden glow filled the hall, and the overhang of malevolence vanished. Every hair on Líriwyn's body stood and the very purpose for her placement in the Rohirric courts was revitalized. A power to defend the king; a true and red-blooded king.

"Éowyn… Éowyn is your name," the ready voice of the King Théoden came to life in her head, and her mind refocused as she lunged for the throne.

"Oh, my king!" Líriwyn cried, weeping on his knee beside Éowyn.

"And Líriwyn—whose mystic light is the only I could see behind this black bane! Never have I seen your magic falter so—"

"My lord, 'tis the evil of this earth which grows that halts me—hereat, I have failed Rohan," she stood slowly and turned for the scullion of Saruman. "And you, you loathly snake!"

Líriwyn headed from the throne and toward the slime before her, which looked to the king for mercy. "My liege, this _dog_ has lost her head! I have only ever served you, and whilst this creature befouled your mind and sought power of her own, I have kept you from all harm!"

"Enough!" King Théoden's voice loudened across the entire hall. The metallic movements of guards and cheers for joy were muted by the king's bellow—for long had it been since they had heard such a mighty, virile voice. The king advanced toward Gríma, sending him crawling in the opposite direction like the worm he was. "Your leechcraft… would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!"

"See the truth, my lord! 'Twas her!" Gríma pointed a crooked, accusatory finger at Líriwyn.

"This eternal Shieldmaiden of Rohan has served us since the times before our greatest forefathers, and yet you say yourself better than her. You are lucky she has not slew you in your sleep, and had I any mind unsoiled by your evil I would have ordered so!"

An electric vehemency riddled the air that was thick with the king's words. Gríma whimpered beneath the hot pressure placed on the room by Rohan's protector; Líriwyn's hold over the hall was so suddenly revivified. A tricky bond clung between Rohan's keeper and Rohan's ruler. When one perished, the other fell. Líriwyn's strength had faltered greatly whilst King Théoden was under the influence of Gríma, but now that the king had found himself again she was far more powerful than before.

"Be gone!" She ordered, and Gríma squirmed away with the help of the guards. Líriwyn could feel the presence of Théoden's battle-hardened hand on the hilt of his sword, but she held up her hand gently to halt him as she said: "He is not worth your stained floor."

"Shieldmaiden—" The king questioned.

"She is right," the dark stranger who had held Éowyn intercepted. Líriwyn looked to him covertly through the corners of her eyes. "Too much blood has already been spilt on his account."

Outside the Royal Stables, Líriwyn looked down to the Cavalry Courtyard, where several soldiers wandered and trained. Their efforts and ambitions had been reinvigorated by the arrival of their old king. They now had a true king beneath which to fight, not some senile puppet dangling on one lonely string tied to Gríma's sickly finger.

She thought of the three guests aside from Gandalf who had arrived. They were three men who had departed from a broken fellowship whose original intent had been to erase evil from the world with the destruction of the ring. Of late Líriwyn had heard much news of this ring, but she had not ever seen it and no one ever spoke of it to her that truly knew about it. The three men and Gandalf, however, had traveled with him who had carried it 'round his neck; a creature called a Hobbit, whose name was Frodo Baggins. Never had she encountered a Hobbit, as her life had dealt almost entirely with the those called Men.

The guests were a Man, an Elf, and a Dwarf, and they had been traveling across the land for much time on nothing but their feet. The size and shape of the Dwarf named Gimli made Líriwyn wonder how such a portly and stout creature such as himself had survived such a perilous trek.

The Man, called Strider by most but called Aragorn by his companions, was one of the finest she'd seen, not only in countenance but also in might. The man was old, Líriwyn could feel his wise will in the air, though he did not look old. Of course he was not as old as herself, but he was old for a man who was still alive and well.

The third, the Elf, was a mysterious fellow. Perhaps Líriwyn found him mysterious because she had never encountered such an elf as him nor had encountered any elf at all in several hundred years. A part of his presence made her feel safer than before, and Líriwyn wondered if just the appearance of one's own kind could placate a person so. For Líriwyn had also felt odd amongst men; though she had learned to live with this oddity and see it typical, the Elf—called Legolas—reignited this sense of anomaly. Líriwyn was always tall and slender, cat-eyed and tip-eared. She was extraordinarily fair, but she did not fit amongst the likes of Men; she towered over them usually and wielded a strength much greater than they.

However this may be, Legolas was taller than her. He was just as lithe, just as strong, just as clever, just as old, and just as _odd_ in a hall of men as she. Líriwyn was fascinated by this phenomenon, and wished to seek him out and speak to him, but she had not the courage. For Legolas was also beautiful, she thought, and she had never found a Man so handsome as she found Legolas.

Líriwyn gathered her skirts in her hand and walked into the Royal Stables, seeking her horse Eowu. The mare whinnied at the site of Líriwyn, she had had many years with the Elven woman to find joy in her presence. Long had Líriwyn ridden Eowu, and some of her long years had transferred into Eowu.

The two trotted along the skinny path that twisted into a small grove. Within the trees soldiers and knights practiced and honed their skills with the sword, the bow, the axe, and the arm. Líriwyn did not take to riding her Mearas mare, they only walked. It was a companionship between them two more so than it was a relationship between rider and beast.

An elastic stretch sounded in the air, drawing Líriwyn deeper into the sparse gathering of trees. It was only a moment until Líriwyn could keenly identify the sound of an arrow shaft speedily tapping against the rest of the bow whilst being aligned with the string. The bowman's hands drew back the string swiftly and an arrow sliced through the air. From centuries of sharpening the skills of Rohirric archers, Líriwyn could identify the sounds she heard as those of a successful load and shot.

Eowu knowingly stayed behind when Líriwyn crept closer toward the archer's domain, for she could identify when passages were too small and tricky for her own hooves and were more suited to the silent and nimble feet of Líriwyn.

Líriwyn moved as inconspicuously as a shadow amongst the trees wrapping around the shooting range. She only peeked one green eye around the side of an oak to catch a glimpse of the scene; and, upon catching this glimpse, did Líriwyn realize she was not surprised to see the Elf Legolas standing far from a single target—a target whose exact center was sliced into pieces by his perpetual arrows hitting the same spot.

He was exceptionally skilled—with clearly no room for improvement as his talent was so vast. The bow and arrow were extensions of him, and they listened to him as well. He had spent many, many years with the bow—Líriwyn could tell—and she hadn't ever seen someone so gifted with the weapon.

 _Are all elves so deft?_ Líriwyn asked herself, wondering if Men were simply lacking innate skills and required simply more training to reach a degree of unsurpassable proficiency that was easily surpassed by Elves. Again, Líriwyn wondered about her own people, and it seemed only someone of her own kin could answer these questions. Líriwyn had spent many lives learning all there is to know about everything and everyone except herself.

" _A_ ," Líriwyn greeted boldly, taking a quick step away from the oak tree she had hid behind. Legolas looked to her with an incomprehensible and miniature smile on his lips, as though he had known she was there.

" _A,_ " he responded. " _Hiril nîn_ ," he added, nodding his head in respect. She did the same, then shyly looked away to the targets. She really cared little for ascertaining their exactness on the target, but she felt a new sense of timidness around Legolas. Nothing she had ever felt before a Man, or nothing she had ever felt before at all. She began to regret revealing herself to him, even if he had been aware of her furtive presence.

"Líriwyn," he said, but not with a tone of address. Instead, he said her name like he was tasting it in his mouth. "From where does you name originate?"

"It comes from the Quenya word for song, _lírë,_ and the Rohirric word for friend, _wyn_. My mother and my father crafted it."

"It is beautiful," he said.

This caused Líriwyn to look at the target once again, for it was difficult to chill the warmth that rose to her fair cheeks. "You are skilled with the bow and arrow," she observed cooly.

"Are you, too?" He immediately returned.

Again, she looked at him beneath her long, russet lashes and nodded. He held out his bow for her to take and her eyes widened quickly. "It is your weapon, I cannot use it."

"I am letting you," he stated.

"It is a fine tool, I would not dare tarnish it."

He laughed, the sounds leaving his mouth as light and heartening as the sounds of a songbird singing the first tune of spring. "You will not, I can see it in your step. You are an archer, you know how to handle a bow."

Líriwyn sought further excuse: "Though you are a prince, and a prince's weapon is not that of a maiden's—"

"A maiden?" Legolas repeated her own words, though reciting with a tone of doubt as opposed to her affirmation. "Long and old tales of the Elven Heir of Rohan would not call you a mere maiden, nor should you call yourself so. You are the daughter of Léod and sister of Eorl, with whom you tamed the first of the Mearas and founded all of Rohan. Upon the death of every Rohirric king, you are offered the throne, and yet you refuse every time. You are no maiden, you are the rightful Queen of Rohan."

Líriwyn silently let out a shuttered breath, one she hoped he could not hear. Yet, she had expected traits of men in him repeatedly and was sorely mistaken.

 _He is as keen in eye and ear as I,_ Líriwyn said inwardly.

"You know much of me," she responded quietly.

Legolas held his bow and an arrow for her once again as he spoke: "Your name is riddled in myths across the land. I knew of you once you were born—the daughter of Man and Elf. 'Tis a rare thing; 'tis a miraculous thing."

Líriwyn took the bow and arrow rapidly and flung an arrow toward the target. The spearhead sliced Legolas' last arrow in two as it sank into the center of the target. "You were alive when I was born?" She asked. She was aware it was a silly question, but the idea of someone surpassing her age was a dreamlike concept to her.

Legolas laughed again. "I had been alive a long time before you were born."

Líriwyn instantly began to dismiss her thoughts of him, her wonderings. All throughout Líriwyn's life she had been the wise one, the old one, the one to address to which matters of history and knowledge pertained. She was the One Elf, but then there was Legolas suddenly, who was far older and far wiser. Líriwyn was but an infant to him, and the many years he had on her probably admitted him much experience. Líriwyn did not live amongst the Elves, she never had, but Legolas always had. He knew the ways of the Elf, whilst Líriwyn only knew the ways of the Man.

"You must see me a child," Líriwyn voiced her thoughts. Realizing she still held Legolas' bow, she quickly returned it to his hands, though she immediately missed the sturdy white wood which still teemed with the heat of his large, strong hands.

"I do not. I see you as a woman," Legolas replied. In spite of the corporeal impression his vocabulary gave, he did not seem to be embarrassed. This was equally as frustrating as it was intriguing for Líriwyn, as she blushed more than he when this was said and she hadn't even been the one to speak it.

When Líriwyn failed to respond, she noticed Legolas look down to his bow. She immediately came to realize how disruptive and uninspiring she had been, and prepared to go after shortly apologizing. "I am sorry for being bothersome, I am just so unused to another of my kin being in Rohan. I have spent five hundred years with Men, and not one with Elves—aside from just a handful with my mother. Forgive me and continue," she nodded her head and made way to leave.

"You are in no way bothersome; I quite enjoy your company."

Líriwyn halted her escape and turned hesitantly back to him, looking at him in the vivid green corners of her eyes. Líriwyn could feel his conviction like nothing else—not only in the sound of his voice and the hardness in his eyes, but also in the way the earth felt beneath her feet. Líriwyn had noticed this sensation since her first sighting of him, a new type of connection. She could now fully recognize that between the Elves, any two of them with or without relation, there was an archaic and inherent bond. Líriwyn wanted to think it was animalistic, but she found that word too harsh.

It was really a simple concept—the fact that Líriwyn and Legolas were both Elves connected them.

"Really?" Líriwyn asked him, though she—in heart—did not doubt that he enjoyed her company. She could _feel_ that he enjoyed it. Legolas smiled and nodded.

He put down his bow to show he was genuine about spending his time with her; he would not be distracted by other matters; in fact he would put them to the side.

"Can you tell me of my people?" She asked.


	2. Chapter II

The Rohirrim dressed in green velvets to commemorate the dead; Líriwyn's dress was dark and deep like forest foliage under night sky, and a black veil hung before her eyes and bound her red hair.

 _An evil death has set forth the noble warrior._

 _A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels_

 _In Meduseld that he is no more_

 _That he is nowhere anymore, for his necessary rest._

 _And that he is the dearest kinsman…_

 _Killing took him._

Éowyn's voice was very clear though very fragile beneath its long notes, for Líriwyn could clearly hear her breaking beneath every strain of her throat.

"Gaéð á wyrd swá hío scel."

Words Líriwyn always spoke at the death of an honorable Rohirrim, for it was essential all know the toss and tumult of life was nothing but fate capturing a soul like a chid capturing a butterfly in her hands. The death which had befallen Théodred could not have been avoided by the means of any being or thing; death was utterly inescapable. Even an Elf such as herself, granted with life as long as that of an earth—Líriwyn would eventually greet death.

Théodred's body had entirely vanished into the small hill, which opened with a small square and admitted little light into its hollow vault. When the stone entrance covered the chamber and encapsulated Théodred eternally in the ground, crowds disassembled and Éowyn herself fled to her uncle's palace at the top of Edoras. Around Líriwyn's forearm was a small wicker basket full of Simbelmynë seedlings. For it had been her who sprinkled the flower of the mourning mind across the hilly graves in the Barrowfield long ago, and to this day she still did—in spite of the flowers' ability to grow without her assistance in those later days.

"Your words were wise, Lady of Rohan," an elder voice appeared beside her. If Líriwyn had not turned to see a wizard, she would have been quite shocked to discover she had not heard someone approach her.

"They were spoken to me by my mother on the morn of her death; I have remembered them since."

Gandalf listened to her keenly, with a vast insight in his blue eyes that made her feel like he was making sense of not just her words, but her entire world.

Líriwyn had kept distant notice of Gandalf since he'd arrived, though she had admittedly and ashamedly been more concentrated on certain _others_ whilst Gandalf puttered around Meduseld. In fact, she now felt bad she had been so immensely absorbed with Legolas and had neglected to acknowledge the other guests. She had drunk mead with the dwarf Gimli one night—albeit alongside Legolas—and she had indulged in a short conversation with Aragorn regarding one of his Elvish blades, but she had really paid little attention to anyone aside from Legolas. Of course, she greatly enjoyed paying him attention and him her, but she had begun to regret not spending time with others.

"I fear I have not recounted times with you, Gandalf. Though you and I have not encountered one another often, I do recall you spent several years in Rohan during my childhood."

Gandalf laughed quietly to himself in a tone only wise, old men could exactly capture. "This is true. You were quite small, you know, hardly to my waist. Though your countenance always fair, and growing fairer by the day still. You were an entertaining child—very clever, mischievous often."

Líriwyn smiled broadly to him though his eyes moved away from her. "It seems I am making someone wait," he chuckled. Líriwyn looked around her to see Legolas standing by the walls of Rohan not far from the grave site. She hadn't seen Legolas yet that day, aside from a few glimpses at the funeral, and she had longed to see him; and, it would not be untrue to say her heart leapt when her longing was satisfied, but she had just scolded herself for not spending time with anyone beside Legolas.

"You are not cause for wait!" Líriwyn cried, looking back to Gandalf with a subtle blush that reached the peaks of her pale cheeks.

"I see in your eyes what you want, Líriwyn. Enjoy the time you have with him while it lasts, for nothing great in this world lasts long anymore."

And with that, Gandalf was off as he vanished 'round the further walls of Rohan. When Líriwyn released a heavy breath and headed for the entrance to the gates, Legolas looked at her with a bright smile and a counterfeit surprise upon seeing her. Líriwyn was never too bold, but she could truly tell he had been waiting for her.

"Would you care to go riding?" He asked her.

Líriwyn looked at the half-full basket of seeds in her forearms in thought. "Shall Gimli join us as well?"

Legolas' brow furrowed and he met her eye. "Need you really escape my solitary company by way of _Gimli?_ " He asked in soft disbelief.

"Escape your company?" Líriwyn repeated. "Why would you ever utter such a thing?"

"Well… _Gimli._ "

"I enjoy the Dwarf. It is amusing to look upon him in all his great braids, boldness, and… belches."

Legolas laughed, sending the tips of her ears into a warmed frenzy. "Do you enjoy the Dwarf more than you enjoy me?" Though his question was lighthearted, Líriwyn's heart fluttered in her ribcage.

She could not remember if she had asked herself whether she would be too daring to ask him: "Are you envious?" That is, before the words left her mouth.

However her courage had been, he did not react with shame nor shock—this was learned typical of him by Líriwyn. Legolas truly could not be distraught by anything. "And if I am?"

Líriwyn stopped her step as the two slowly ascended the rolling inclinations upon which Edoras was placed. She smiled coquettishly to herself, only sparing him the side of an eye. "Then I'll surely have to ensure Gimli come along in order to punish you, for green looks poor on you."

She continued upward, mounting the city and leaving Legolas behind her. She had no doubt that a smile of great magnitude graced his face just as it graced hers. Líriwyn dared not look back, but she was plenty tempted to when she erupted in laughter upon hearing him shout from far behind her: "Invite the Dwarf, but I'll have you know—I look excellent in green!"

And it was true, he looked excellent in green.

"And had I been no cleverer than she—I'd have asked for something silly, like a kiss!" Gimli shouted from atop his pony. "But no, not I! I asked for a strand of flaxen hair from the head of the ever-fair Lady Galadriel, and I'll be damned—the Lady gave me three!"

Líriwyn laughed from her higher place upon Eowu. Legolas and Arod walked not far from her and Eowu, and Gimli—on his stocky, stubborn mare named Ege—walked between them.

"I know of what you think, Lady Líriwyn. You need not worry—I think you fairest of all women! Yet Galadriel… Fairest of all Elves."

"Master Gimli, what might that mean?!" Líriwyn cried in feigned outrage, though she was confused by his words in heart.

"Aye, only a man may know. Isn't that right, Legolas?" Gimli asked loudly and Legolas only laughed in response. "Soon shall you visit the halls of Erebor, there you'll be loved by Dwarven men of all kind. You might not imagine it, but we Dwarven men are plenty fond of red hair on a woman—especially when it's a woman as lovely as you!"

"Well, Gimli, your hair is red," Líriwyn commented.

"Aye, but its not a thing like yours!"

Líriwyn smiled, trotting on in the warm bask of winter beneath the sun. A cool draft carried in the air, yet the cloudless sky made hot Líriwyn's hair and skin. She eventually grew uncomfortable with the increasingly stagnant rays of heat, so she decided to cool off. Without a word of notice, Líriwyn flew off into the distance faster than Legolas and Gimli had ever seen someone ride.

Soon enough, she looked like a ladybug flying in loops over the lines made by the hills—as if part of a two-dimensional landscape where distance was pressed into a single picture. She was far off by the time Legolas had processed her departure and could kick his heels into Arod. Gimli followed suit as well, but on the back of Ege he was significantly slower.

The wind sent tendrils of red hair turned golden by the sun away from Líriwyn's face. Despite the sound of Eowu's clapping hooves, the wind ripping past her ears, and her cloaks and dresses dancing behind her, she felt a part of a moment of utter silence. All of the loud noises crossed each other out and Líriwyn was soon in a world of complete quiet.

This did not last long, however, when Líriwyn caught scent of a river nearby and decided to slow down and head into the short length of forest that separated the river from Harrowdale. Líriwyn was already sitting cross-legged on the ground by the time Arod and Legolas fabricated between the breaks in the tree trunks.

"What was that?" Legolas asked as he got off Arod's back with impressive agility. A silver pool of water sat before Líriwyn in the ground. The trickling of water slowed at this spot before which she sat. There, the water smoothed over and allowed just the tap of Líriwyn's slender finger a magnificent mirage of ever-expanding rings.

"I grew too warm beneath the sun."

When Legolas stepped toward her, Eowu—who stood not far from Líriwyn—noticeably grew unsettled. This was not atypical of Eowu; she often reacted to the hand of a stranger with violent and frightening behavior.

"Eowu does not take kindly to strangers nearing too close," Líriwyn explained quietly.

"Avaro naeth, estelio nin," Legolas spoke, still drawing closer to Eowu. "Man eneth lín? Eowu? _What name is that for a horse as fine as yourself?_ "

Líriwyn watched Legolas place his hand gently on the dappled muzzle of Eowu. Never had Líriwyn seen Eowu behave so kindly to another; it took Líriwyn years to tame Eowu entirely.

Líriwyn wondered if it was a bond between horses and the Elves, for no Man had ever saddled Eowu and lived to tell the tale. Or, perhaps it was his fine Sindarin? Líriwyn spoke to Eowu in Rohirric, typically. Though every vowel rolled from Legolas' tongue so fluidly and melodically, she would question the sanity of anyone who did not listen to his every word.

"It is my tongue for 'sheep'," Líriwyn said. "She is afeard by nearly everything but me, though the ewe is what she fears most."

Legolas laughed, and Líriwyn watched the masculine muscles of his throat clench and bob. She nearly reached to touch her own throat, which seemed so unpronounced as opposed to his.

Just then, Gimli came crashing through the foliage, cursing at Ege in his heavy Dwarven tongue. Líriwyn did not like the sound of Khuzdul, it was bulky and exotic and too unlike the lyrical language of the Elves. Perhaps her opinion was biased, but she was truly not fond of Gimli's Dwarven mumblings, cursings, and whatnot.

"This pony is right mad, I'll tell you! She won't go when I say go, and she won't stop when I say stop!" He cried. He then maneuvered down the side of Ege in an awkward fashion. Once he reached the ground, he straightened his attire and cleared his throat, as if to clear away his previous actions.

"If you had exceeded the five foot mark, this would not have been an issue," Legolas notified as he petted Eowu's ashen mane.

"And what's that supposed to mean, Elf?" Gimli asked, pronouncing his final word as though deepening the line he drew between his and Legolas' races.

"It means you'd have ridden a Mearas if you'd have had the height."

Gimli grunted and straightened his posture, subconsciously trying to add whatever inches he could grasp. "Well, not all of us can be tall and dainty flowers."

"Dainty flowers?" Legolas repeated Gimli's words, his eyebrows furrowed and mouth turned downward.

"Aye, you heard me!" Gimli shouted as he stood on the tips of his toes to reach his bundle from its place atop the rear end of Ege. When he unrolled the bundle on the ground beside the pool, Líriwyn was not surprised to find Gimli had been carrying a near feast within his bundle. Askew the large cloth he'd carried was wrapped cheeses, white fish, breads, berries, and even two hip flasks of warm liquors.

"What have you packed supper for?" Líriwyn asked with a rolling laugh.

"You Elves! I'm aware you needn't eat as often as any other folk, but you must also be aware that us other folk _do_ need supper!"

"Master Gimli, perchance you have forgotten I have spent five-hundred years amongst Men? I know their mealtimes, and I also know that the late afternoon does not happen to be a time a feasting!"

Gimli opened his mouth in response, but nothing came off his tongue.

"We are actually approaching twilight—the road here feels shorter than it is in truth. It may be wise to sleep here, for it will be dark within minutes and it is best not to be exposed in Harrowdale at night."

"Is it less hazardous to sleep in this minimal coverage?" Líriwyn wondered, looking up at Legolas and his infinite knowledge of adventure and travel. She loved more than anything to hear his tales of Mirkwood—from the Forest River to East Bight, tales of Rivendell—when he crossed the High Pass to get there, tales of traveling through the Mines of Moria and visiting Lórien—where he saw Caras Galadhon with his own eyes. For Líriwyn had never the chance to travel these stranger lands, not even those Elven lands of her own heritage.

In spite of her lack of travel, Líriwyn did not mind. For not having travel allowed her the ability to ask Legolas of his travels, and she would give all her travels just to see his eyes light up in their sprightly fashion whenever he spoke of his own.

Líriwyn pinched herself with that thought.

"Not nearly."

"Aye!" Gimli exclaimed, plopping down on his large, unfolded cloth. "Then a feast we shall have!"

Once Ithil had made his slow crawl halfway across the sky, Gimli was only muttering bits and pieces of nonsense between rip-roaring snores. He clenched one of the hip flasks—now empty—in his sleep and left the rest to Legolas, who always thought he need drink very much to achieve some degree of inebriation. Now, this was not true— Líriwyn had noticed. The effect of the heavy drink merely took longer to hit Legolas; he did still have an innate consistency that required more liquor to achieve intoxicated disassemble, but it didn't not hit him at all. Thus, by the time Gimli was asleep, Legolas was experiencing tipsiness from the first sip of mead he'd had that night.

Líriwyn, on the other hand, had been weaned on watered and honeyed ale, malt, and mead; she was no stranger to the liquor of Men. However, the effect on her was closer to that on Gimli—her blood of Man took the reins where alcohol pertained.

Legolas stood several inches deep in the pond—barefoot despite the brisk winds. As an entire Elf, he supposedly did not experience coldness like any with the blood of Man running through their veins.

Suddenly, a heavy linen draped 'cross Líriwyn's shoulders. She shivered at the sensation, but immediately relished in the new warmth. She had not realized, but her teeth had been chattering.

"Le hannon," Líriwyn spoke.

Then she yawned, and took down her hair from the long braid which embroidered her spine. She grew tired slowly, like a flaming log dying down to embers. She slept little—though she _did_ sleep. However, her perception of sleep was much different from that of Men. The sleep of Men was dark and often dreamless; their minds laid solid and unmoving, though their bodies seemed to move with some sluggish degree of passion. However the sleep of the Elves was more of a rest than anything else, and it was entirely optional. A rest for Líriwyn was a short closing of the eyes while her mind flustered, or it was a waking dream which she entered by choice. And feeling tired was not what it was for Men—drowsiness, grogginess; it was merely a longing for dreams, a longing for peace.

Legolas sat down beside her, looking to untie his cloak so he may lay it on her already-covered legs. It was obvious in the languid fumbling of his suddenly inapt fingers that Gimli's potent wine had finally made some significant effect on him.

"You'll grow cold, Legolas. I do not need it," she said as steadily as she could, though the way her voice involuntarily dropped and twirled lyrically did not lean toward stability whatsoever.

"An ngell nîn," he insisted. Líriwyn reached out and pulled his hands which groped the collar of his cloak. Perhaps they were not familiar enough for her grasping of his hands, for he paused when she took them in her own.

"Goheno nin," she said quietly and she looked into the pool before her sheepishly. Though she felt his hands around her own shortly, threading together their fingers like weaving many beautiful threads into one glorious tapestry. The knuckles in his hands were broad and thick, and created ample space for her fingers to fit between his. His hands were warm whilst hers were quite chilled from the night.

"Your hands are like ice—you need it. I do not get cold like you do."

So Líriwyn accepted the third offer of his cloak and he draped it over her folded legs. With a murderous and inescapable culpability, Líriwyn tugged the cloak so it meagerly covered some fraction of his leg closest to her. She thought herself rather pathetic, but she heard a short breath blow through his nose and determined it indicative of him finding humor in her feeble attempts. It warmed her heart to capture the endearing sound so close to her own ear.

Beneath the woolen cloak that covered them both—or at least Líriwyn entirely and Legolas partially—Legolas' hand took hers in his once again, though this time not to evaluate her lack of warmth; and, he lay their tangled hands where their legs met beneath the cloak.

"Líriwyn—" He began to speak, though he stopped when her jaw pressed against his shoulder and the pointed edge of her ear brushed his hair. In that movement, Líriwyn's entire body lit up like a flame meeting oil. Never had she experienced the sense bleeding from her ears and into the rest of her body; the only person to touch her ears had been herself, and that engendered little reaction from the rest of her body. Though pressed into the white-gold strands of Legolas' hair made her feel his light in her, and she wondered if he felt hers in him. And this feeling was quite pleasant—the type of pleasant you want more and more and more of.

Líriwyn nuzzled her head against him, in the fashion a mare would her loving master. The motion was electrifying, making every fragment of her person light with a golden flame. She dropped a breath accidentally—too short to be passed as a tired sigh, and she wanted to blush and turn away but she could not. She feared he would recoil—perhaps she overstepped her boundaries.

Though he tugged her hand in his closer to his chest, and rolled his head slightly so his own ears brushed her hair. And it was then that the longing for peace between them and with him did Líriwyn feel the need to rest, so she closed her eyes and let her brain saturate in the sense of utter bliss.

"What did your words mean?" She heard Legolas' voice softly—originating from a place closer to her own skin than ever before. "The Rohirric words you spoke at Théodred's interment."

Líriwyn again dug her jaw and forehead into him, delving deep in the electric sea of him and her. She sighed and translated: "Fate goes always as She must."

* * *

 **Hello everyone! Thank you for the reviews, they are very much appreciated and I love to hear from you guys. I'm also apologizing in advance for factual mistake I make; I love everything Tolkien, but I don't know everything there is to know about Middle Earth, and I apologize for that. Also, I know Legolas and** **Líriwyn seem to be moving quickly, but in order for the plot to carry on it has to be this way. However, it is important to remember that** **Líriwyn spent her entire life amongst Men and she is not versed in Elvish courting customs or what is considered "fast" according to Elves. I think interpreting Tolkien is different from person to person, and you're definitely going to see my own take on the story as the time comes, especially within the relationships between Legolas and** **Líriwyn, two Elves from two very different backgrounds. Thank you for reading!**

Translations:

Avaro naeth, estelio nin. = Don't worry, trust in me.

Man eneth lín? = What is your name?

Le hannon. = Thank you.

An ngell nîn. = Please.

Goheno nin. = Forgive me.


End file.
